But This Isn't Later
by SourCrumb
Summary: It's Solas and the Inquisitor, it's angsty teasing. Because there is always time later for worries and regrets, so why bother thinking about that now?


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He didn't make a choice to end up bursting through her bedroom door. It had never been a question of choice. Not with her; never with her. Of all the things he'd been anticipating, everything he'd prepared for... it was almost laughable, really. That she, a wildcard in every possible way, would flutter across his path and stick to the bottom of his shoe before somehow ending up tucked inside his inner shirt pocket, much to his shock and secret, horrified pleasure.

The Inquisitor was never a choice he made. Why would he chose for his thoughts to be consumed like this? He had better things to be doing, essential work and research, but no, he'd been unable to concentrate on anything but the memories of gasps and moans echoing around inside his skull.

Throwing open her door, he scanned the room, biting back a moan of his own as he spotted her coming around the wardrobe screen, bobby pins between her teeth and her hair half up and half down. He crossed the room without a word, stopping in front of her only to slide one hand through her hair, feeling himself grow somehow even harder at the sound it caused her to make. She was wearing something silky, comfortable and revealing, and he watched the lines and curves of her body shift through the thin fabric. Her nipples were hardening before his eyes as she flushed under his gaze. She hated when he stared at her, even if it was in admiration. He knew where he saw perfection, she saw nothing but flaws.

It drove him completely mad.

He shifted his gaze back to her face, swallowing at the glow shining from the back of her eyes. The hand on the back of her neck moved, reached higher, and his fingers wrapped around her pony tail, pulling her head back, and his mouth crashed down, firm and hard and wanting against hers.

He wanted her.

There was no choice about it.

He felt her own lips, small and bright, and so, so welcoming, the way they parted under his, they way they gave up to him. It was the same way her body had begun to give way under him, and he hooked his other arm around her waist, keeping her upright, pressing her against him. He broke their kiss to breathe, watched her chest rise and fall as she struggled to do the same. To his surprised, she looked up, catching his gaze, meeting it.

Keeping it.

He had never known the Inquisitor to make eye contact with anyone for longer .83 seconds. This was something new, something so rare, so special, he knew he should be humbled.

He knew what she was giving him. What she was showing, offering, what was shining around her so brightly that even the most mundane of person would understand and be touched by it.

He knew she needed him now. That she would be anything and everything she could for him.

He knew it deep down.

It was too much, too easy, too familiar, and he brought his mouth back down to her, cutting off their moment before it could blossom, knowing some flowers need to be pruned for the good of their health, knowing he needed to stop before he killed this particular blossom dead, but it was all too much, and too easy, and so, so familiar.

He knew could let himself need her.

He could need her exactly the same way she needed him.

He snarled through their kiss as the guilt became too heavy for him to stand. He broke away from her, fingers still firm around her hair, her hip. He heard her call to him, her voice soft and worried and aching to help in any way she could.

She would do anything.

So he pulled her hair back and listened to her gasp, before he tilted her head so he could bite along her ear, ignoring her offers, her concerns. He drove his head down, buried it in the nape of her neck, inhaled the black tea and red rose of her perfume. He smothering the thoughts inside him, drowned them out with the words and the sounds he coaxed from her, pulling them bother deeper and deeper down.

He could hate himself later, he knew it, but that was later. There would always be time later; there would never be enough now. 


End file.
